


Circumstance

by okaystop



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: 2008 Campaign Era (Crooked Media RPF), M/M, Masturbation, Remix, Selfies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-16 13:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20817503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaystop/pseuds/okaystop
Summary: If Tommy is ever going to take a dirty selfie and mean it, it would be to send it to Jon.





	Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imperfectcircle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectcircle/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Context](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19484353) by [imperfectcircle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectcircle/pseuds/imperfectcircle). 

> REMIX of [Context](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19484353) by **imperfectcircle**. 
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta, who always makes everything I write so much better.

When taking a dirty selfie, it's all about the right lighting and angle. 

Tommy knows all about this. He could likely write a book about taking the perfect sexy selfie, if that was a thing people wanted to read about. He knows to avoid the face or any real identifying features. He leans into the teasing aspect of the photo, giving just a taste and leaving the rest up to the imagination. And, most importantly, he _never actually hits send_.

That time Tommy accidentally sent one to his best friend doesn't count. Mostly because it wasn’t entirely an accident.

He's in Iowa when it happens. In his tiny, sterile studio apartment, feeling a little on edge. Like all of his days, it was long and a constant stream of busy, but he'd had a conference call with HQ that said they weren't hitting their numbers. He's already working so hard, but he has to work harder, be better. This is important work.

He needs a release. He knows he could go find an organizer to mess around with, or pick up in some dive bar. Neither of those options sound all that appealing, and besides, ever since making the move permanent out here to Iowa, there's only been one person on Tommy's mind. One person who is decidedly _off-limits_.

If Tommy is ever going to take a dirty selfie and mean it, it would be to send it to Jon.

But he isn't going to do that, because he and Jon aren't anything besides friends. Best friends, even, if they're defining it. They have certainly never come close to anything more than friendship, and Tommy's pretty sure Jon is one hundred percent straight. Also that Jon doesn't know that Tommy isn't. Straight, that is.

It's late, and Tommy's sitting on the lumpy mattress he threw on the floor, leaning back against the wall. The moon, bright and bulbous, shines through the uncovered window. 

Tommy shifts a little, thinking about Jon. He doesn't let himself do this very often. Definitely not when they're in the flop house in Chicago, only a few thin walls between them. But here in Iowa, miles away, Tommy lets his mind wander. It's safer, here, where there isn't a chance of running into Jon on the way to the bathroom or facing him in the kitchen the morning after jerking off thinking about him. He won't see Jon for a while, maybe not even for a month at this point. So it's easier for Tommy to let himself fantasize.

He imagines, for a moment, Jon visiting him, but visiting him only after they have that whole discussion, the one where Tommy says that sometimes he sleeps with guys and also that he maybe, probably, definitely wants to sleep with Jon. It's contingent on Jon saying he likes Tommy too (liking guys in general doesn't matter in this specific fantasy, really), so Tommy glosses over that and just moves to the point where they're both on the same page and Tommy can get his hands on Jon.

Or, more appealingly, Tommy can get Jon's hands on him. His slender, curved, piano-playing fingers. He can practically feel those long fingers against his collarbone, Jon's palm pressing down Tommy's chest to his abs. 

Tommy lets the back of his head loll against the wall, his eyes closed. He fiddles with his phone, thumbs open the camera and holds it up and out. He clicks a photo of the way he looks now, thinking about Jon touching him, a little half-smile on his face. He opens his eyes and looks down at it. The lighting's good, really good, the moonlight making him pale but in a pleasing, sculptural way. He looks like he's enjoying something happening off-camera, which is exactly what he's going for.

He nods, pleased with himself, then deletes the photo. It sucks that no one (that _Jon_) won't ever get to see it, but it's not a big deal. He always deletes his selfies, especially ones that show his face. 

Sighing, he sets his phone aside and relaxes again. Jon's hands on his chest, his stomach - these are good things. But those fingers should be in Tommy's mouth, he thinks. He _wants_ them in his mouth. He remembers the first time he was watching Jon and that image popped into his mind. Jon was sitting at a cramped desk in the Senate office in D.C., gesticulating with his hands, then he rubbed his mouth with his fingers, chewed on the side of his thumb.

Tommy's getting hard thinking about it. His dick strains against the fabric of his khakis, and he hurries to unbutton and unzip them, releasing the pressure. He moans, lets the tips of his fingers move against his chin, his chapped lips. "Shit," he mutters, and grabs blindly for his phone. 

Without giving it much thought, he stretches the phone out, trying to get the same angle as before, the one with the good lighting. He brushes his thumb over his lower lip, licks it, then slides two fingers into his mouth. He looks at the phone with his fingers pushed against his tongue, imagining they're Jon's fingers, or his dick, or -

He snaps the photo and lets the phone drop to the bed beside his lap as he closes his lips around his fingers and sucks gently, then harder. He adds a finger. He closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of his fingers in his mouth, makes them spit-slick, lets his chin get wet. 

One-handed, he shoves his pants and boxers over his hips. When he wraps his fist around his hard cock, he's thinking of Jon. 

He's already really hard, the head of his dick leaking. He doesn't know the last time he was this hard. He flicks his finger against the slit and gathers up the jizz, uses it so he's not jerking himself off dry. He drips some more, his palm slick and fast as he pumps his cock. It doesn't take long - the thought of Jon looking at that photo and doing the same thing thinking about Tommy - for him to come. He spurts out with a gasp and works his hand up and down, squeezing, until he's panting and too sensitive to take anymore and his wrist and stomach are covered.

Later, completely spent, Tommy feels light-headed and satiated, burrowing his cheek and chin against his pillow. He knows he needs to clean himself up, but he likes these quiet moments after a self-made orgasm, when his muscles are loose, hand and stomach sticky. When he feels a little bit outside of himself and his brain can only focus on his own breathing, his heartbeat slowing, his dick softening against the inside of his thigh.

He lets himself slip into something like sleep without being asleep, time passing slowly, his head and eyelids heavy. When he shakes himself out of it, he rolls off the mattress and trudges to the bathroom to clean himself up. He strips down to only his boxers and plants himself face first back on the bed. He lands on his phone, which he pulls out and looks at. 

The selfie he took thinking about Jon in the moments before he jerked off thinking about Jon stares back at him. It's good. It's really fucking good, in fact. If he were to send this to someone, it would do its job. Of course, Tommy isn't going to send it to anyone, especially not to Jon. But he also doesn't delete it. 

Later, he'll give himself the excuse that he was too tired, too close to falling asleep, but the truth is, deep-down, Tommy knows eventually he's going to send it to Jon. He just doesn't know when it'll happen.

\--

Jon hasn't looked at his phone for at least an hour, possibly two. He left the campaign office late and took work home with him. He's been planted in front of his laptop since then, poring over a speech the Senator has to give before breakfast tomorrow morning. He's unfocused when he sits back, rubs his eyeballs through his eyelids, and scratches his jaw. He doesn't know what time it is, but he knows the rest of the guys in the flophouse went to bed a long time ago. It's just Jon left awake, eyes straining at the computer screen.

His phone is turned over beside him, and he picks it up to find that he has a new text message from Tommy. 

Tommy Vietor: [photo]

Smiling - assuming that Tommy's sent him another photo of the Iowa office getting all set up - he clicks through to open it.

Jon freezes.

Tommy has sent him a photo. A selfie.

Tommy has sent him a _dirty_ selfie.

This photo isn't meant for him, Jon tells himself as he turns his phone face down on the couch beside him. He doesn't want to tempt himself to look at it again, as he takes the time to decide what to do about it. He moves his laptop off his thighs and stands up. 

Tommy obviously meant to send it to someone else, some girl he's dating, probably. Or some - well, maybe even some guy, Jon supposes, seeing as the photo, while not a nude, is clearly suggestive. Tommy wants something in his mouth, Jon thinks. Thank god - Jon doesn't know how he'd handle a nude from anyone, let alone from Tommy. 

He pushes his hand against the top of his head, fingers brushing through his short, buzzed hair. Tommy sent it about an hour ago, and there hasn't been a follow up. Is he waiting for a response? Has he figured out he sent it to the wrong person and now he's talking to the right one? 

Jon paces once, twice, then picks up the phone and looks again.

He _knows_ it isn't meant for him, but that doesn't make him stop looking at it. Tommy looks halfway to fucked out, cheekbones high and flushed, eyes half-closed, his lips wrapped around two of his own fingers. Jon can see the sheen of spit at the corner of his mouth, the curve of his tongue, the way his collar bone juts out at just the right angle.

"Fuck," Jon says, out loud, when he realizes he's getting hard.

He should - he _should_ \- text Tommy back and make a joke out of it. Or nicely tell him he sent it to the wrong person, no big deal at all. He should definitely delete the photo. He should do _something, anything_ besides what he knows is about to happen, which is Jon suddenly and very quickly shutting down his laptop and rushing to his bedroom, where he can close and lock the door, sag against it, and get his hand inside his pants.

When Jon gets his hand around his dick, he's thinking about Tommy. 

He's thinking about Tommy on his knees in front of him, big hands spread out on Jon's thighs, head tilted up so he's looking at Jon. His eyes are dark and stormy, the wave of his hair falling across his forehead. Jon squeezes the base of his dick and imagines pushing himself into Tommy's mouth. 

Just like the way Tommy looks in that photo, fingers in his mouth, but now it's Jon's cock between his lips. He wants to fuck his face, hit the roof of his mouth, the back of his throat. He wants to come on Tommy's face, make him an absolute mess.

Fuck, Jon has never thought about Tommy this way. He's never thought about any guy this way before. But now - now, it's all he can think about. He strips his dick, thrusting his hips forward, watches the head disappear into his fist. 

He gasps and comes, hard, Tommy's name a shout into the still, quiet air of his empty bedroom.

Later, he deletes the photo from his phone, knowing he won't ever be able to really forget how Tommy looked in it.


End file.
